Liturgical

Thinking of this post from Frontier Orthodoxy got me to thinking about the liturgical moments in my life outside church. For me, these are almost always connected with fishing. I don't claim to be a great fisherman or even a good one but I do claim to have caught some fish and if, at the end of all things, something similar can be said about my soul, I'll be happy to count it as win.

Whitewood Creek is close. So close, I can see my home up on Houston St. as I fish in the valley below. With a toddler and an very pregnant wife at home, this is about as good as gets. When I walk the dog, I can hear the rush of the water and the sound makes me think of fishing, which is almost as good as fishing itself.

You have to watch your step wading up Whitewood Creek. The stream bed is what my dad would call "an ankle breaker", strewn with rocks, logs and the detritus of 100 years of mining and railroading. There are fish in this creek, pretty little brown trout that leap into the morning air chasing bugs so small you can barely see them. They aren't the biggest fish you can catch in the Black Hills and some anglers I know would find a trip to Whitewood a waste of time. A big catch in this fishery is 10 inches, something they wouldn't roll out of bed for. That's why I like it here. I like it too because the fish are dumb and hungry. So dumb and so hungry that they will take my flies, no matter how badly tied and how poorly cast.

There is a feeling that is like no other and that feeling is this: Fishing on a chilly September morning and seeing a fish rising up-stream. Looking down at your feet, seeing a caddisfly float past and knowing in your heart of hearts that this is the bug that fish is eating. Looking in your fly box and seeing a fly that you tied 3 months before and suspecting that this little bit of hook, feather and fur just might fool that fish. Tying on and feeling that pesky headwind dwindle and die as you start to cast. Not hurrying, keeping the four count rhythm, ever mindful of the tree behind you that has shattered so many moments like this in the past. Making the best damn cast you've made all morning if not the whole damn summer. The fly touching the water for an instant before it is pounced on in a strike as pretty as anything you'd imagine. In the brief, lopsided struggle that ensues, the fish flings itself skyward and you can see its a good one. The fish is in the net and you have a few seconds to admire the vibrant red spots that the brown trout get close to spawning time. The hook comes out easily and the fish swims away to be caught on another chilly September morning.